t odds. Scaife drew in his breath; his
brows met in a frown. "You have not blundered; and you are not sorry,"
he said deliberately. "I'm not a fool, Verney; but perhaps I have
underrated your ability. You're as clever as they make 'em. You knew
well enough that you were the last person in the world to lead me in a
string; you knew that, I say, and yet you come here to pose as the
righteous youth, doing his duty--eh?--against odds, and accepting credit
for the same from Caesar. Why, it's plain to me as the nose upon your
face that in your heart you would like me to be sacked."

Desmond interrupted. "You are mad, Demon. Take that back; take it back!"

"Ask him," said Scaife. "He hates me, and common decency ought to have
kept him out of this room. But he's not a liar. Ask him. Put it your own
way. Soften it, make pap of it, if you like, but get an answer."

"Jonathan, it is not true, is it? You don't like Scaife; but you would
be sorry, very sorry, to see him--sacked."

"I'm glad you've not funked it," said Scaife. "You've put it squarely.
Let him answer it as squarely."

John was white to the lips, white and trembling; despicable in his own
eyes, how much more despicable, therefore, in the eyes of his friend,
whose passionate faith in him was about to be scorched and shrivelled.

Scaife began to laugh.

"For God's sake, don't laugh!" said Desmond. "Jonathan, I know you are
too proud to defend yourself against such an abominable charge."

"He's not a liar," said Scaife.

"It's true," said John, in a strangled voice.

"You have wished that he might be sacked?"

"Yes."

John met Desmond's indignant eyes with an expression which the other was
too impetuous, too inexperienced to interpret. Into that look of
passionate reproach he flung all that must be left unsaid, all that
Scaife could read as easily as if it were scored in letters of flame.
Because, in his modesty and humility, he had ever reckoned that Scaife
would prevail against himself--because, with unerring instinct, he had
apprehended, as few boys could apprehend, the issues involved, he had
desired, fervently desired, that Scaife should be swept from Caesar's
path. But this he could not plead as an excuse to his friend; and Scaife
had known that, and had used his knowledge with fiendish success. John
lowered his eyes and walked from the room.

When he met Desmond again, nothing was said on either side. John told
himself that he would speak, if Desmond